


It’s good to feel you are close to me

by girlmarauders, growlery



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Audio Format: M4B, Audio Format: MP3, Community: pod_together, Cover Art, F/F, Gen, Glasgow, M/M, Podfic Length: 10-20 Minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:05:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1957788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlmarauders/pseuds/girlmarauders, https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Musketeers and friends all attend the University of Glasgow, drink and read poetry to each other, mostly while being in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s good to feel you are close to me

**Author's Note:**

> fic by girlmarauders, podfic and cover art by growlery. 
> 
> Studies:  
> Aramis: English Literature & Language  
> Athos: Law  
> Porthos: Social & Economic History  
> D’artagnan: History & Politics  
> Constance: Chemistry with Medicinal Chemistry  
> Ninon: Physics & Astronomy  
> DeWinter: Sociology & Theology/Religious Studies
> 
> Vocab:  
> The Stevie – The Stevenson building, Glasgow university gym  
> The union – The Glasgow University Union  
> The QM – The Queen Margaret Union  
> Hillhead Bookclub- hipster restaurant, does not actually sell any books.  
> Kelvingrove - Natural History museum and art gallery, in the Kelvingrove park which is adjacent to Uni of Glasgow campus.

  
  
[MP3](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2014/It%27s%20good%20to%20feel%20you%20are%20close%20to%20me-girlmarauders,%20growlery.mp3) / [M4B](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2014/It%27s%20good%20to%20feel%20you%20are%20close%20to%20me-girlmarauders,%20growlery.m4b)  


The inside of the union always smells like piss, even in the winter when it’s too cold to smell anything. All of the leaves in the park have collected on the pavement on Porthos’ walk into uni and now his shoes are full of water. They squelch every time he puts his feet down, although they’re starting to dry out in the warm, underground air of the Beer Bar. It’s a Friday and the bar is loud and full, the jukebox in the back playing and the sound of snooker audible from outside. Aramis had snagged the alcove for them earlier when he finished lectures, so him, Aramis and Athos are stretched out on the alcove benches, feet up on the tables. Athos is single-mindedly working his way through pint after pint after pint, without appearing even slightly worse for it. Porthos has snagged on of the beer bar stools and stretched out his leg, draining a Tennants. It’s been a long day.

“No,” says Athos, emphatically, as Porthos tunes back into the conversation, “You cannot compare those two cases, you just can’t.”

Aramis throws his hands in the air, although there’s the wicked glint in his eyes that Porthos knows means he’s fucking around. Athos takes himself and his degree too seriously.

“What do you mean I can’t? The charges in both cases were ‘corrupting the youth’,” Aramis says, adding in finger quotes.

“Yes but one of them took place in _ancient Greece_ and the other took place in the _1970s_!” Athos says loudly and then crosses his arms and leans back onto the pockmarked green leader seats, giving Aramis a shrewd look. “You’re fucking with me, you’ve got be fucking with me. You always do this.”

Aramis starts to laugh and leans back, throwing his arms up on the top of the bench seats.

“You’re boring when you talk about law. It’s less boring when you think I’ve fucked it up. Porthos thinks I’m right, don’t you Porthos?”

Porthos stretches, trying to knock the kinks out of a day spent in lecture theatres, and nods.

“Yep,” he says, grinning when Athos rolls his eyes.

“You guys suck,” Athos says, “I’m getting another drink. What’d you want?”

Aramis waves his glass, swilling off-colour cider around at the bottom.

“Cider blackcurrant again,” he says, and tips the last of his glass into his mouth.

“Porthos?” asks Athos, standing up and digging in his leather jacket for change.

“Just another Tennants.” His pint is almost finished and if Athos is buying he’s not making himself drink the dregs.

Athos nods.

“Back in a second,” he says, and saunters round the corner to the line at the bar.

Porthos starts digging in his pockets, pulling out tobacco, filters and papers and starting to roll. Aramis watches idly, leaning back and crossing and uncrossing his ankles on the table and making it wobble.

“You coming to mine tonight?” Porthos asks, looking up at Aramis as his licks the edge of the rolling paper. Aramis smiles broadly and nods.

“Yeah, of course. If you’ve got food in, I’ll make something.” He says, although quietly. The beer bar alcove is set off from the other drinkers but it’s not private. Not much of university is.

Porthos rolls two cigarettes and sets them aside before wrapping up his tobacco and filters and sticking them back in his pocket. Aramis’ phone buzzes and he glances down.

“D’art just texted me,” Aramis says when he glances up from his phone. “He’ll be here in a minute, he just finished at the stevie, he’ll be round in a moment.”

Porthos raises his cigarettes.

“I’m going out for a fag, I’ll probably see him coming in,” he says, standing up and pulling on his coat.

  
&&&

It’s dark and wet outside, but not raining, and Porthos shelters under the front door’s stone overhang to light up. There are a few other lone smokers, shivering and trying to keep their cigarettes out of the damp. It’s the kind of wet night that makes the city look like a blurred watercolour: streaky and indistinct. Some students step on a loose paving stone on the pavement and shriek when they’re splashed with muddy water.

D’artagnan comes strolling around the corner, picking his footing carefully on the steep hill. He’s got his sports bag thrown over one shoulder and his hair is dripping onto his shoulders.

“Hey!”, he says, bounding up the front steps and ducking Porthos’ cigarette to give him a quick hug. “what’d I miss?”

Porthos smiles and bumps an elbow against D’artagnan’s shoulder.

“Athos and Aramis are downstairs in the beer bar. You’ll have to catch up. Here, let me finish this and we’ll go down.” He says, taking a quick drag of his cigarette and then putting it out against the stone and dropping it in the cigarette bin.

D’artagnan shifts his bag onto his other shoulder and makes a face.

“I can’t stay long; I’ve got a tutorial tomorrow I haven’t done anything for.” He says, although he’s already moving through the union door. Porthos follows him down the stairs to the beer bar, sliding off his coat once he’s in the beer bar’s over-warm beer-soaked air. Athos’s moved forward in the line and he’s only a couple people away from the bar.

“C’mon,” Porthos says and pushes lightly at D’artagnan’s back. “Athos’s getting the next round, go tell him what you want.”

D’artagnan pushes back at the shove good-naturedly, smiling, and squeezes past the back of the line to step up alongside Athos.

Porthos turns into the alcove, managing to catch Aramis by surprise by jostling the table and making his feet fall off. He makes a wounded face.

“Asshole. And you smell like cigarettes.”

Porthos smiles back and sit down, stretching his legs out.

“D’artagnan’s here,” he says. “He says he can’t stay long, so I assume we’re here until they kick us out?”

Aramis hefts his feet back up on the table and reaches across to clasp hands with Porthos.

“Looks like it, my friend.”

&&&

“I say it is/ the one you love. And easily proved./ Didn’t Helen, who far surpassed all/ mortals in beauty/ desert the best of men”

“Is that Sappho?” Dewinter asks, from the doorway. She’s holding a mug of tea in one hand and Ninon watches appreciatively from bed as she leans against the doorway and her curves slowly mould to the doorframe. “Isn’t that rather…romantic of you?”

Ninon sits up in bed, the covers falling away from her breasts, and stretches. Dewinter raises an eyebrow, clearly fully away of what Ninon is doing.

“Just because I’m a scientist doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate great literature.” She says, setting the book she was reading aside.

“Yes, but Sappho? Really dear?” Dewinter says, crossing the living room that doubled as a bedroom in their cramped flat, and sets the mug on the table by the bed. Ninon laughs.

“We’re pretty much contractually obliged to like Sappho,” Ninon says. “I think it’s printed in the rules on my queer club membership card.”

Dewinter sits on the edge of the bed and leans forward to give Ninon a kiss, pressing their lips together slowly. Dewinter’s fingers brush along Ninon’s scalp, on the side she had shaved. She feels light-headed when they part. Dewinter’s kisses always do crazy things to her.

“I think they forgot to give me that when I joined,” Dewinter says, with a smile on her face. She shifts on the bed and pokes at Ninon’s side. “Move over.”

Ninon shifts over on the bed, holding up the sheet so Dewinter can crawl under. Dewinter’s mostly clothed, in a pair on boxer shorts and a t-shirt with no bra, but she’s mostly naked. They both sit up to lean against the backboard and Nino cuddles up against Dewinter’s side, Dewinter’s arm around her. With her free hand, Dewinter snags the mug of tea on the bedside table and wiggles into a more comfortable position.

“Read me the rest, will you?” Dewinter asks, leaning over and kissing the top of Ninon’s head.

“You sure?” Ninon asks, looking up and running her fingers along Dewinter’s side. She takes another sip of tea and smiles down at her, tangling her fingers in Ninon’s hair.

“You know I love you voice dear. And it sounds like a nice poem.” She says. Ninon grins.

“I knew you’d like it. Here goes.

> Some say cavalry and others claim  
>  infantry or a fleet of long oars  
>  is the supreme sight on the black earth.  
>  I say it is  
>  the one you love. And easily proved.  
>  Didn't Helen, who far surpassed all  
>  mortals in beauty, desert the best  
>  of men, her king,  
>  and sail off to Troy and forget  
>  her daughter and her dear parents? Merely  
>  Aphrodite's gaze made her readily bend  
>  and led her far  
>  from her path. These tales remind me now  
>  of Anaktoria who isn't here,  
>  yet I  
>  for one  
>  would rather see her warm supple step  
>  and the sparkle in her face than watch all  
>  the chariots in Lydia and foot soldiers armoured  
>  in glittering bronze.

The Saturday-morning light is shining in through the window across the room and Ninon is comfortably warm, especially with DeWinter’s body warming the bed. The sound of the poetry seems to fill the room and Ninon lets herself enjoy reading aloud to somone who is genuinely listening to her.

&&&

Sunday morning dawns bright and early for Constance as she pulls herself out of bed to fill tote bags and the biggest rolling suitcase she owns with the clothes and accessories she makes herself. She’s also got a few salvaged pieces of jewellery she’s tidied up and the cloths she decorates her table with and a collapsible rail that she hangs the clothes from.

Luckily, the walk to the Hillhead Bookclub and the Sunday vintage fair is short from her flat, even while hauling the suitcase behind her. The Bookclub is empty, aside from some staff, while she and the other stall holders set up, shaking out musty vintage clothes, checking the prices on everything and making sure business cards are somewhere visible.

She waves to Fleur, who runs a small stand selling jewellery and accessories, and sets up her sewing machine behind her own table so that she can work while she waits. Mornings at the fair are always slow but things usually pick up around noon and she’ll do some brisk business. The money she makes from the stall and selling things at craft fairs isn’t a lot but it’s enough to take a nice chunk out of her rent or help her buy her chemistry books at the beginning of each term.

She spends the first few hours sewing or playing on her phone. A few bored-looking girls in over-sized coats flick through the clothes she has on display but buy nothing. She’s focusing on her sewing when she sees someone come up to the stall out of the corner of her eye. She finishes her run and stands up, running her hands down the front of her skirt, only to slump out of salesperson mode when she sees it’s Aramis.

“Hey, how much is this?” He says, holding up one of the ties she had folded at the end of the table.

Constance rolls her eyes.

“It’s got a label on it Aramis. What are you doing here?” She asks. Aramis turns the tie over and looks at the label.

“We’re here to support you,” Aramis says, making innocent puppy dog eyes at her.

“We?” She asks, just as Porthos wanders around the corner, hands in his pockets. She sighs.

“I suppose that means D’art’s here somewhere too – oh for the love of god!”

There’s a crash and then some anticlimactic tinkling noises as D’artagnan, coming up the stairs to the second level where the stalls are, trips on a step and goes flying into Fleur’s jewellery stall. Fleur shrieks.

“D’artagnan!” Constance shouts and he immediately looks sheepish.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean!”

Bits of jewellery fall off him as he stands up and Constance can see an earring stuck in his hair. Fleur looks like she might cry.

“Here, Fleur, let me help you tidy up,” Constance says as she steps out from behind her table, taking care not to not knock anything over herself. D’artagnan slowly detangles himself from what’s left of the jewellery although eventually Constance has to lean over and pull the earring out of his hair herself. Aramis helps rearrange everything; Porthos and D’artagnan wisely stay out of the way.

“I’m sorry about him,” Aramis says to Fleur but gesturing at D’artagnan, once everything’s back in its place. He holds up a pair of gold earrings and smiles broadly. “I was hoping I could buy these?”

Realising Aramis has the situation under his charming control, Constance goes back to her table, where someone with blue hair is waiting to buy a skirt.

D’artagnan ambles over slowly, with hunched shoulders and his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry Constance,” he says sheepishly. She immediately feels bad for shouting at him earlier, even though she knows he’s not actually upset or hurt. Damn his puppy-dog eyes. She reaches out to touch his shoulder gently.

“It’s alright,” she says. “Nothing broken, it’s fine.”

D’artagnan is too attractive for his own good, Constance knows this, but it’s easy to forget when you can feel his warm, muscled arm through his shirt and he’s looking at you with those deep, gorgeous eyes. She is so screwed.

  
&&&

Monday is stunning. The night had been cloudless and bitterly cold, especially in D’artagnan’s crappy flat, but the cold dried up all the damp throughout the city and the daytime sun is brilliantly warm. Gilmorehill is full of students sunning themselves and his first lecture is almost empty. The lecturer trails off after about 45 minutes and tells them to all go outside and enjoy it; they won’t get another day like this for some time.

On his way down five flights of the Boyd Orr staircase he texts Constance.

you at uni? wanna go to the park?

He ducks into the QM to buy a Coke and some chocolate bars, before heading back out onto the pavement. His phone buzzes.

yeah sure im outside the union right now, Constance texts back. D’artagnan smiles uncontrollably and dodges through the throngs of students on the pavements to get over the hill as fast as possible. The patch of grass outside the union is packed with students, drinking from huge plastic pitchers and making more noise than a flock of geese. Constance is sitting on the low, stone wall, sunning herself. She’s wearing a white t-shirt and a red skirt and big black sunglasses. D’artagnan stops himself several paces back to admire her. She’s beautiful.

It’s only a moment before she notices him and waves. She’s holding one of her chemistry textbooks in her left arm and has a bag hung over one shoulder.

“Hey,” he says, and leans in to hug her. “It’s a beautiful day. You look amazing.” She smiles and kisses his cheek when she leans away.

“You’re flattering me and it’s too hot; let’s find somewhere cool.” She tries to fan herself with her book but it’s too heavy to do anything but exhaust her.

D’artagnan thinks for a moment.

“Inside the Kelvingrove will be cooler, we could go look at the paintings?” he says, taking Constance’s book to carry without thinking. She smiles indulgently at him.

“You know I can carry that myself, right? And yeah, let’s go to the museum, you can buy me an ice cream at the café.” She says, tucking her arm through D’artagnan’s free one.

  
&&&

In the park proper, near the Stewart fountain, Aramis had found a little grassy spot sheltered by trees, so they wouldn’t get hit in the face by someone with frisbee or disturbed by someone with a dog. He’d brought food but forgot a blanket, so him and Porthos are just laid out on their coats and the slightly wet grass. Porthos is still slowly working his way through the rotisserie chicken they bought from Tesco on their way to the park; Aramis can hear him chewing.

He holds his phone up right above him and takes another instagram of the sky. The clouds look different now and he wants to document them. His phone clicks and he heats Porthos snort in amusement. From where he’s lying, he can’t see Porthos unless he moves but he can hear him and feel his close presence.

“Don't go far off, not even for a day,” Aramis says quietly, almost to himself.

“hmm?” Porthos murmurs. “What was that?” Aramis hears him sit up and then Porthos face moves into his view. Aramis smiles. He knows Porthos is going to laugh at him, he doesn’t mind.

“It’s Neruda,” he says. Porthos rolls his eyes.

“Damn English student.” He says but he settles down to put his head next to Aramis’, on top of Aramis’ coat. “How’s it go?” he asks, looking up at the same clouds Aramis just instagrammed.

“Don’t go far off, not even for a day,” Aramis says again, listening to Porthos breathe next to him. “because – because – I don’t know how to say it: a day is long and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.”

Porthos doesn’t speak but he does reach other to take Aramis’ hand, rubbing his thumb over his palm and twining their fingers together.

“Don’t leave me, even for an hour, because then the little drops of anguish will all run together, the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift into me, choking my lost heart.”

He pauses to breathe and Porthos grips his hand.

“That one sounds depressing. Know anything more cheerful?” He says. Aramis snorts at Porthos this time.

“I’m sorry I don’t have any dirty limericks memorised for you,” he says, and rolls over to look at Porthos, and then starts to recite, still holding Porthos’ hand.

“I cannot, and I will not, no, I cannot love you less, like the flower to the butterfly, the corsage to the dress-”

“You’re ridiculous,” Porthos says, interrupting, to the sky, but then rolls over himself, until he and Aramis and centimetres apart, lying face to face on the damp grass under the Glasgow sunshine.

Aramis waits. He’s good at waiting when it counts and it makes it all the sweeter when Porthos finally leans forward slightly and kisses him. They kiss slowly, for what feels like hours, without even needing to touch anywhere but their hands together. It’s a good kind of lazy kissing, without purpose but full of promise.

When they draw apart for a moment, their foreheads barely touch and Porthos looks well-kissed, sun-kissed and lazy. When Porthos falls asleep next to him moments later, Aramis takes another photograph, as quietly as he can.

The caption reads “ _It’s good to feel you are close to me_ ”.

**Author's Note:**

> (poems are:
> 
> Supreme Sight on the Black Earth by Sappho  
> Don't Go Far Off - Pablo Neruda  
> Eurolove by Spike Milligan)


End file.
